Citizen Girl by Emma McLaughlin Page B

envelope while steering with her left hand that she misses the entrance to the train station altogether and has to pull a K-turn. She places her hand on my headrest before pivoting her body to back up, her fingers loosely brushing my hair. Tears spring to my eyes at the contact.
    ‘Oh, honey.’ She brakes sharply and drops her hand to my shoulder.
    ‘Sorry,’ I sputter, fighting the urge to drop into her lap, thankful for the restraint of the seatbelt. ‘I just, this is just, so … hard. I don’t know why she—’
    ‘You’re taking this so personally.’ Mrs Roberts looks me in the eye, the windshield wipers squeaking back and forth. She reaches down to open the glove compartment, springing a gaggle of toys, maps, CDs, and fast-food detritus across my lap. ‘Shit,’ she mutters.
    ‘It’s okay.’ I bend to help her shove everything back into the tiny space.
    ‘Thought we had tissues. Will a Wet Nap do?’
    I nod, dutifully blowing my nose into the moist antiseptic cloth. ‘I’m just so scared that I’m actually unemployable.’ That Doris was right. That I suck. ‘If I could just get an interview, or even a lead—’
    ‘Of course you’re employable – that’s ridiculous. You know, maybe I can get the New York office to see you – they’re still interviewing. I’ll put in a call tonight.’
    ‘Oh God, I’d be so grateful …’ The train clangs in across the street, forcing her to complete the ragged turn and pull, screeching, into the station.
    ‘Gogogo!’ she yells, already groping for the headsetagain as I unbuckle myself, slipping and sliding up the steps and into the ice-covered train.
    Thursday morning finds me standing under the marquee of Radio City Music Hall flipping through my Filofax to locate the address from Mrs Roberts’s message. The frigid wind bellows up Sixth Avenue, making my eyes tear as the fluttering pages reveal that I’m on the wrong side of five lanes of traffic. I scurry between steaming hoods of honking cabs to a tower soaring at least fifty reflective stories into the Midtown skyline. Pushing the revolving doors, I pause in relief under the blast of hot air, accidentally causing a hostile pile-up of cashmere-clad businessmen behind me.
    After a full cavity search at security I’m directed to a set of elevators that promise to bypass the first lowly thirty-four floors. As the car hurtles upwards I reapply lipstick and try not to look nervous.
    On thirty-five the glass door clicks open and I’m let into a forbidding gray reception area dotted with birds of paradise and black-suited staff, giving the place a distinctly funereal air. After signing in I run my hands down the back of my own dark suit and take a seat in the horseshoe of reception chairs. Surreptitiously glancing at the others also clutching leather folders to their chests, I try to imagine working in a place not illuminated by Technicolor hemp. I like it.
    ‘Okay.’ A man with a clipboard appears, clearing his throat. ‘We’ll take the next group: you, you, you, you, and you.’ I button my blazer and smooth my ponytail as ourposse follows him into a windowless conference room featuring two concentric circles of chairs: Big Five does Dante. He pulls an about-face, prompting our group to stall in the doorway. ‘I’m Chip, and I want to welcome you to today’s session.’ He pauses.
    ‘Hi, Chip,’ we say, frighteningly, in unison.
    ‘Great, so I’m going to grab the associates and we’ll begin with a Group Exercise.’ I get a flash of us doing Tae-Bo. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and take a seat?’
    Everyone seems to know to sit in the inner circle and slide their folders under their chairs. Despite their cagey glances, I imagine us in months to come reminiscing about this around the espresso machine; Chip will pass by, give us a thumbs-up. The few chosen ones will be my colleagues; we’ll share our marriages, pregnancies, divorces …
    Chip returns with his associates, who are our age, but